Not For Lack of Trying
by Like A Dove
Summary: You've defeated the Archdemon. You've become the Hero of Ferelden. You've married Alistair and have become his queen. But now a new, horrifying obstacle looms before you... Babies. Alistair/F!Cousland.


When you were a child, your mother always told you that one day you'd wear her wedding dress.

You found this concept completely and utterly offensive, of course.

First of all, why would you ever wear a dress when you had a tunic and a perfectly good pair of pants?

Second of all, why would you ever want to get _married_? Boys were stupid, and annoying, and most of them couldn't swing a sword or ride a horse half as well as you could. You told mother that you'd be better off marrying yourself, a statement that horrified her and greatly amused your father.

But your mother would still try to put you in nicer clothes, still try to get you to sit up straight during tea, still try to get you to chew with your mouth closed. You refused her in most things. In fact, the only thing you seemed to like about her was her armor, which you ogled over whenever you got a free moment alone.

The metal was shiny and the leather was rough and well worn, and your small child's hands inspected it gingerly. You would smile happily and imagine yourself riding to battle and killing foes in this armor, your father's sword in your hand. You would be a hero, just like in all the fairy tales that your mother would read to you before you'd go to sleep. Being read to was one of your favorite parts of the day, although you'd never admit it.

And in your dreams people would write stories about your heroism, and every child in Ferelden would grow up knowing your name. They'd hear tales about you before they'd go to sleep, and they'd aspire to be you, to be like you.

Twenty years have gone by and you've come to realize that sometimes dreams do come true. But at what price?

* * *

Today is your wedding day.

You'd be excited if it weren't for the fact that everyone is fussing over you. You'd be excited if it weren't for the fact that multiple servants are touching your hair, scrubbing your feet, and plucking your eyebrows. You'd be excited if it weren't for the fact that you've been up before the sun.

And you sit in a chair and endure it all. Partly because you've been thoroughly threatened by the utterly terrifying Head Servant, who is twice your size and came into your room armed with tweezers and powder brushes. Partly because your brother is here and you don't want to embarrass him by walking down the aisle in pants. Partly because you really, really love the man you're marrying, despite the fact that he can be an idiot and neither of you have any idea what you're doing, honestly.

But it's mostly because of the dress that's hanging in the corner of your room. It was your mother's; you've managed to salvage it and have it restored to its former glory. And even though it's frilly and poufy and more than a little old-fashioned, you feel that it's the least you can do.

_For mother_, you think. And then you wince as a servant yanks on a particularly heinous tangle in your hair.

* * *

"I'm going to throw up." Your grip on Fergus' hand tightens and you can't swallow the bile pooling into your mouth. The two of you are approaching the main hall, the hall where all your friends are waiting for you, where Alistair is waiting for you.

And you're going to officially become his Queen.

And you are going to throw up.

"Relax," your brother whispers, tone quiet. "You'll be fine."

"I will _not_ be fine. I'm—"

"You love Alistair," Fergus reasons. "And you love this country. And you wouldn't want to get vomit on mother's dress. Which you look lovely in, by the way."

You whine a little and place another hand on Fergus' arm in order to keep your feet steady. Everything that he's said is true. You _do_ love Alistair, and you _do_ love your country. And you really _don't_ want to puke on your mother's wedding dress.

_Your_ wedding dress.

And then, before your thoughts can get even more frantic, the doors to the massive hall open and you're walking into it, and you're being greeted by the happy, smiling faces of almost all of those that you've come to know on your journeys.

And then they begin to bow to you. Your heartbeat thunders in your chest, your hands are sweaty, you're scared and clueless and the next thirty or so years of your life loom in front of you, big and unknown and daunting.

You wish your mother was here.

But she is not, and you must be strong. If not for her, then for yourself and the King that you're marrying. The King who is just as scared and clueless about all of this as you are. You are reminded of how young the both of you are, and just how little experience with politics the two of you have.

But then you spot him. And Alistair gives you a nervous smile. You can tell that his hands are shaking, even though you're not even halfway to him yet.

You let out a deep breath.

You'll be okay.

You always come out okay.

* * *

"I swear to you, I saw Oghren cry." Alistair yanks off his boots with a grunt and proceeds to fling them into a corner of his room. Well, _your_ room now, too.

"You're full of it."

"I am not!" he exclaims, turning his bare upper torso so that he is facing you. He gestures toward his face. "There were tears just streaming out of his eyes and into his beard. It was very touching."

At your unimpressed stare he snorts. "Well,_ I_ found it touching."

Your new husband watches you for a long moment, eyebrows finally tilting down in concern. He moves across the bed toward you and cups your cheek. "Hey, what's the matter?"

"It's nothing," you say, sighing. "I was just really nervous earlier, I suppose. I almost threw up before the ceremony, you know."

And Alistair surprises you by managing to look sheepish. "I actually _did_ throw up before the ceremony so…I win."

"But you didn't even throw up before your coronation."

"I know! It makes no sense, right? It's not like marrying you is _scarier_ than being crowned King of Ferelden, or anything."

You smirk and smack his shoulder and he laughs, gently grabbing your hand and then proceeding to run his fingers down your arm.

"Now," he says, voice going low, "let's get you out of that dress, shall we?"

* * *

**A/N:**

And thus begins my very first Dragon Age fanfiction. Admittedly, I'm still pretty new to this fandom, so I'm sure that there will be facts that I'll get wrong, here and there. And I've already been told that the whole "Alistair and F!Cousland try to produce an heir" thing has already been done more than a few times. But, whatever.

Smacking an 'M' on this for future smut. Because it's going to go down.

Also going to go ahead and admit that I'm basing this particular female!Cousland character off of Arya Stark, since their characters and back stories remind me a bit of each other. And also because Arya is awesome.

I don't expect this story to be too long, and I do expect it to be rather light hearted. So, yay.

Please leave me feedback if you feel so inclined. :D


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